Tilting on the Edge of a Tidal Wave
by Dukes126plus
Summary: Admitting he’s scared or that he even cares about being punished is more than Luke will ever do for the likes of Droopy and Claiborne. From Cool Hands, Luke and Bo.


This episode, _Cool Hands, Luke and Bo_ was frustrating for this project. Luke wasn't being agreeable. Oh, he had his reasons. Anyway, this is take two. Take one conssited of Luke refusing to do anything useful at all.

* * *

It's not the tiny spaces they're about to be shoved into (an odd thought tumbles across the surface of his brain about how they resemble salt and a pepper shakers; that part could be brought on by the mention of no meals for twenty-four hours), even if he's not sure how he's going to fit, much less stay, in there. Hallucinations aside, his stomach's too full of butterflies to care about being denied food. The dark, while not exactly inviting, isn't the real problem.

The two little shacks, if they can be mistaken for being that much, are only a few feet apart. No further, he doesn't think, than the distance between his bed and Luke's. They don't look all that solid, but there's no maneuvering space inside, no way to get leverage, he suspects. And even if there turns out to be, even if he might be able to kick his way loose, there's Slater and company to consider. Armed and probably with orders to shoot anyone who emerges from either one of those shakers without permission.

It would be hard to explain, at least in a way that would keep him from getting shot, that he wasn't really escaping, just getting free. And it wouldn't matter anyway, because busting through one set of walls wouldn't be enough; he'd have to find his way through the shack that's about to surround Luke, too.

His cousin's not going to fight, of course. Admitting he's scared or that he even gives a damn about being punished is more than Luke will ever do for the likes of Droopy and Claiborne. So that leaves twice as many walls for Bo to break through.

It's not distance from Luke that bothers him exactly. They've been apart for more than a day, at least five or six instances that he can think of. It's—

"See you in the morning," Luke's grumbling at him from where he's being shoved towards the pepper shaker; Bo gets salt. It's bravado and a warning. Stay put, Bo.

And then it's dark, hot and small. The door's shut and the lock clicks.

It's two sets of walls between them, is what it is. That close to Luke and no contact. Can't see the blue of those eyes that steady him when all the world's tilting on the edge of a tidal wave, can't hear the steady, slow breathing that never seems to turn into a pant, even when Luke's been running at full speed. No smell of sweat and livestock barely masked under lye soap. But more than any of that, there's no feel of warmth emanating from under the arm he likes to keep slung across Luke's shoulders, no shifting muscles beneath his fingertips. No slick, sweaty warmth, no softness.

The first few hours are spent reminding himself that he doesn't have to touch Luke. At least he thinks it's hours, could be just seconds and he'd have no way of knowing. After indistinguishable time, he starts to chew on the thought that he could give up the habit of leaning on his cousin if he wanted to. Somewhere in there he decides that he doesn't even do it as much as Luke seems to think he does, and most of the touches are tiny things anyway. His hand grazing against Luke's when his cousin has reached across to start the General for him, well, whose fault is that? Luke's the one on his side of the car, isn't he? Somewhere around what's either been half the day or three years, he remembers other touches that are equally accidental, like at the dinner table, elbow to elbow. One six foot span isn't enough for two grown boys. Anymore than this here salt shaker is big enough for one.

Funny how hair in his eyes bothers him even when he can't see a damn thing anyway. And how sweat tickles like the stroke of a fingertip down his cheek. The air is close and tight around him, cushioning every part of his body until he can't feel anything at all. Luke could be in here with him, and he'd never know it, wouldn't be able to feel him through the air. Maybe his cousin's laughing at how he's hidden in plain sight, _right here Bo, _and_ if I was a snake I would have bit you_. Or maybe those are Luke's hands leaving hot goose bumps on his arms – would have to be, really, no one else is half the paradox that Luke is. Yeah, that tightness in his chest is Luke, holding onto him from behind, keeping him up off the face of a cliff he can't see. The increasing heat of this place is just his cousin sweating on him, and his racing heart is only because Luke's breathing in his ear. _You're safe._

His neck is wet, could be vapor from Luke's mouth, but it's too thick for that. It's a kiss, maybe, or something more. He turns his head into it, feels the heavy moisture of it sucking into his own lungs and yes, he's breathing Luke in. It's a kiss – his lips must be too numb to feel it but his chest knows this drowning sensation that's only mitigated by slow, careful breaths through the nose. Hands on him, his arms being stroked, _settle down, Bo_. One heavy hand finds his heart and rests there against the beat; the other tangles into his hair. Luke's in front of him now, he thinks. Can't say because he can't touch him, he can only be touched. _Easy cuz_ is what he feels in the way Luke's hands run along the curves of his chest and back, find their way down to his waist. He feels the slip of clothes against his sweaty body, then they're gone. Luke's not in front or behind him anymore, he's everywhere and nowhere and—

Light, instant headache; he tries to curl into himself. There are hands on him, nothing as gentle and soft as Luke's, not so much touching as yanking and, "That wasn't so bad," Luke says from somewhere.

Cold air in the bright light, and Luke's voice came from above and behind him. He's going to have to open his eyes, probably stand up before he can find his cousin. Takes two tries, but he's upright waiting for his eyes to focus enough to be sure. Shouldn't need them, he can smell that sweaty body, hear that steady breathing, but until he finds those blue eyes, he's still rocking on rough seas in a salt shaker.

"No," he answers back. Wasn't so bad at all, even had some worthwhile moments.

Just about the time his eyes get clear enough, Luke's snap away. _Walk with me_, they're saying. Bo uses his newly attained focus to look behind them. Yep, guards.

He tramples flat every desire that he has to cling to Luke; the last thing he needs any of these Osage Prison guards to know is exactly how much he wants his cousin close right now. Shoot, it would be like getting up on one of those picnic tables and announcing, if you want to torture me, just take my Luke away. He keeps his hands to himself, just barely. Or keeps them busy, getting a drink, dumping cold water over his sweaty head. _Wake up, Bo_.

He follows where Luke walks, not so much blindly as trustingly. Wherever they're going, it can't be bad or Luke wouldn't take them there. Voices, men – Charlie. Right. Other inmates. He forces himself to pay attention to the cadence of the voices around him. Nothing interesting about them, and that might just be the best thing. Flat, meaningless tone, bringing him back from the way Luke whispered into his whole body through the endless night, rumbling and melodic and—

"Oooh oh ooh." That's anything but musical over there, still, it's familiar. It's the final grounding force he needs, the reminder that Boss and Rosco are here, too. It would be one thing to grab onto Luke now in front of all these prisoners and guards that he's known for all of two days. Doing it in front of Hazzardites he's known all his life would be downright dangerous.

Besides, Boss's whining about being overstuffed reminds Bo about missed meals, and the sensation of an empty belly reminds him that what's really missing from his life is nutrition, not love. He's loved plenty, a fact that'll get proven when visiting hours begin and he can see the rest of his kin.

"I guess we can't touch each other." Jesse's the one who gets to say it out loud, doesn't seem fair.

"I can give you a kiss," and that's Daisy.

_Nobody ever comes out of solitary quite the way they went in._ That's just the echo of Charlie's words from right after they got out. Didn't mean anything to Bo in that moment, but here with the feel of Daisy's lips on his cheek, sticky with lipstick, chaste and careful and nothing like the hot vapor of Luke last night – right now Charlie's a genius. And Bo's an idiot.

Things happen that don't entirely makes sense. Like, is that a sword falling out of Rosco's sandwich? And then there's Daisy offering them chicken as they're being shoved back towards the barracks. Luke's giving quiet instructions and just about dragging Bo behind him.

"Come on," gets said somewhere in there. And: "Don't give them no reason to separate us again." He's not sure which words are whose or whether any of it is actually spoken out loud.

But it's Rosco and Boss in solitary now. He and Luke are forgotten for the moment, long enough to rally the other prisoners together. Bo doesn't know the whole plan, not really. Watches it unfold, just doing what Luke tells him until his part comes along. His real purpose is to drive the whole mess of them out of here. Smart man, Luke Duke. Giving Bo something he can do with his eyes closed. And conveniently forgetting to mention that Luke'll be abandoning him halfway there.

"See you in Hazzard, Bo," comes the casual call over the roar of the General's engine, then Luke's gone.

_See you in Hazzard_, tossed out like a comment on the color of the sky. Luke's got no idea what kind of motivation he's provided. It's like solitary again, only faster. Won't take him twenty-four hours to get back to Luke this time.

And it only takes minutes, he's pretty sure. The truck crosses the county line, then somewhere in the seconds when Jesse's holding his face in those meaty hands, the General follows.

Before he can find his way to Luke, all hell breaks loose. Osage's infamous leaders come crashing out of the safety of their own county and right into the Hazzard law's hands. Boss blusters and Rosco threatens, and someone (might even be himself) announces that nothing ever changes around here.

It's wishful thinking, probably. Hazzard's grass is still green, rimming its red clay roads. The Duke farmland is still covered in corn, and the tire still swings from the tree when the wind gusts up. Maudine's still nickering to herself about being neglected out there in the barn and their bedroom is still tiny.

"Luke," he says finally, when the door is closed. Time to get out of these prison jumpsuits. "Luke?" He might not have left enough time in between for his cousin to answer him.

Blue eyes, fixed on him. "Settle down, Bo," is what gets said.

"Luke," one more time, because he wants to touch, and doesn't. Want to grab his cousin, wants Luke under his hands. Not like solitary where he could feel Luke and never touch him.

"Tonight," Luke says, doesn't explain. "Keep it together until tonight." It's a reasonable request. He can go through the motions that long. Showers, dinner, stories of escapes and attempted reprieves from the governor. Kisses from Daisy, proud words from the old man. Bedtime finally, behind their own door again. Bo has no idea what to do.

Doesn't matter because Luke's there, pushing him down onto his own bed, solid hands on his shoulders. "You hurt anywhere?" gets asked somewhere when Luke's squeezing his upper arms, maybe checking for broken bones under the muscle there. He shakes his head, but it doesn't matter. Luke's hands are checking other parts of him, face, rib cage, forearms, no order or reason to the progress of those squeezing fingers.

"Luke," he says, then grabs the man by his wrists. Hard bone, warm skin, real. "Come." He lays down and tugs. "Come on," he has to encourage because Luke's not ready to give up the search for injuries, never mind if his exploring hands leave bruises in their wake. It takes one more pull before his cousin gives up and lies down with him. Settles most of his body on his right side, facing Bo. Left hand's still wandering, making sure there's no blood anywhere on the outside of Bo's body. Bo uses his right hand to demonstrate a better method. Doesn't poke so much as stroke Luke's arm, shoulder, neck, face. "I dreamed you," which isn't right, but it's close enough. "In solitary."

"Shh," Luke answers. _Don't talk about it_, maybe. Could be _go to sleep_.

"Stay with me," is the price Luke'll have to pay if it's sleep he wants Bo to get.

That traveling hand finds the back of his neck, rests in the hair just above. "Ain't going nowhere," Luke whispers. He shifts, adjusts how he's braced on his right arm, lets his top knee rest over Bo's.

It's now or never; Bo tilts his chin up and purses his lips until they find Luke's. There it is, steady breath puffing out Luke's nose onto his cheek, hot hand against the skin of his neck, smell of sweat and lye soap. Those blue eyes are probably closed, but it doesn't matter. Bo's not drifting across the ocean in a salt shaker any more. He's safe in Luke's arms. Luke lets him hold the kiss as long as he needs to; doesn't so much kiss back as accept what Bo gives him. When it's done he says, "Now go to sleep." Pulls Bo that half and inch closer and holds on until exhaustion catches up with them both. And that's okay, Bo knows Luke'll still be there in the morning.


End file.
